Page 139

And worse—what he might believe.

FORTY-SIX

Ethan

Every meeting, every negotiation, every confrontation—whether in business or in my personal life—has always been handled by following the same rules I’ve known since I was a child: you show no emotion, no sympathy, nothing is allowed to cross your face, you don’t change your posture or your breathing.

Thousands of such situations have carved me, shaped me, prepared me to be who I am today.

I can handle any negotiation on my own. I can walk out of every meeting with exactly what I want, exactly what I planned for.

I don’t feel fear. I don’t feel emotion. I don’t pity a single opponent.

That’s business. That’s the only way to succeed. And if you want to reach the top, there’s no room for deviation.

I’ve never been communicative, open, or particularly sociable. My childhood was as normal as any other child’s. My teenage years were split between school, our father’s company, and parties. I lived a perfectly structured life, untouched by hardship, worry, or need.

My parents were always there for me and my brothers—offering love, devotion, protection.

That doesn’t mean I’m blind to how the world actually works. I know what exists beyond that luxurious environment. I’ve seen and heard enough.

I’m used to cases that make headlines. Stories that drag people through hell, that expose the worst parts of human nature without restraint.

And now… I saw the news the same way everyone else did. Headline after headline. Speculation layered over speculation.

Her name everywhere.

My father’s name right beside it.

A story that, under normal circumstances, would’ve taken priority. One that should’ve demanded my full attention, immediate control, a response.

It doesn’t.

Not now.

Not when every accusation thrown at her is dissected in front of the entire world. Not when every detail is twisted into a version meant to destroy her.

Not when I’m standing here, watching her fall apart right in front of me.

The rest becomes background noise.

Irrelevant.

And standing here now, leaning against Theo’s front door with my arms crossed over my chest and one ankle resting over the other, I watch Thalia unravel completely in Sierra’s arms.

All this after she spent at least half an hour recounting the horrors of her childhood and adolescence. After showing everyone the marks on her body—marks I’ve never seen, even though I know her body by heart.

I watched her fight to remain standing while she told them everything she endured, everything she thought, felt, wanted, prayed for as a child.

Then she described the threats that still follow her, the scene at the gala where Zayn stepped in to protect her while I was too busy kissing Antonia in front of a room full of hypocrites.

I listened as she told them about the message she received today as well—one she hid from all of us again.

Everyone else, including her, is too caught up in what she’s saying to connect the information that was leaked to the press.

It’s painfully obvious her family is watching every step she takes. Every appearance. Every headline tied to our name.

She’s trying to apologize, as if anyone here could believe for even a second that she’s capable of doing what they said.